


For a Little While

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-14
Updated: 2015-11-14
Packaged: 2018-05-01 14:58:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5210219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Porthos,” Aramis resumes, his voice strained in frustration.  </p>
<p>“I get it,” Porthos says, “Scold me once we’re safe.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	For a Little While

**Author's Note:**

> Another drabble prompt from tumblr: "Porthos carrying seriously injured Aramis. I just want all the angst."
> 
> Please note that there is no actual death in this fic (spoiler alert).

Aramis is getting steadily heavier to hold up against his shoulders. It isn’t Aramis’ fault, of course. Porthos is strong, sure, but they’re roughly the same size, the same bulk, and Aramis can't move much even as Porthos attempts to keep his weight off his twisted leg, consequence of a hard fall and scuffle. They’re making their way through the woods, trying to meet up again with d’Artagnan and Athos at the rendezvous point, but it’s raining that kind of rain that slants side-ways, gets in your eyes and clouds your vision. Porthos struggles not to slip in the mud at his boots, to collapse under his own weight and injuries, underneath Aramis. He needs to keep him up. He needs to hold him up, no matter what. 

“Almost there,” he says even though he isn’t exactly sure – he’s lost track of his footfalls, needs to reorient himself but struggling through labored breathing. Aramis makes a little mumble of agreement, but otherwise stays quiet, head drooping against his shoulder. 

Porthos' foot plants into a thick square of mud and his knee tweaks enough that he hisses out in pain, stumbles, nearly drops Aramis. Aramis flops and hisses out in his own quiet murmur of pain when he disturbs his injuries. 

“You alright?” Porthos hisses, arm wrapped tight around him and biting back his pain, trying to hold Aramis steady. Instead of answering, Aramis turns his head, looks up at him, touches his fingertips to a cut on Porthos’ cheek that’s been bleeding sluggishly despite the slap of rain to their faces. Porthos’ expression softens momentarily – leave it to Aramis to fret about him, in this moment. He shakes his head, tries to reassure him - looks at Aramis with his eyes softening. “I’m alright,” he says, quiet as he looks at Aramis. “Don’t worry.”

Aramis gives him a phantom of a smile and says, “Don’t I always?”

That much is true. Porthos tilts his head, squints through the trees, tries to pinpoint one dot of sunlight through the clouds, churning overhead. He blinks away the rain, feels Aramis let out a small sigh and drape into him. Porthos studies the lee of the trees, the way their boughs waver in the crisp slant of the wind, favored on one side, the moss growing on the trunks in one direction only. He swallows down thickly, tries to make his brain focus, tries to bite back on the anxiety that claws at the back of his mind that they’ve been going in the wrong direction this entire time. 

“Fuck,” he curses, tries to focus, tries to steady. His knees buckle. He shifts, wraps his arms around Aramis, and just picks him up. His injured arms protest the treatment, and Aramis protests it louder.

Not for pain, as it turns out, but instead to look up at him with a frustrated expression. “Your shoulder. Your leg—”

“Shut up,” Porthos snaps out, perhaps a little unkindly, but he’s focusing and Aramis purses his lips in a way that means he’s going to insist as soon as he’s able. Already Porthos’ arms are shaking as he starts working again. For the sake of Porthos’ injuries, Aramis does not squirm – but he is clearly unhappy. 

The rain drags down his face. He squints up at the clouds, sees the distant, covered dot of the sun. He breathes in sharply, pauses, orients himself. It is one thing to orient yourself in cityscape, in dank corners and broken uncertainties. Porthos has always liked the outdoors, but has always felt foreign in it, far more foreign than he ever felt in Paris. The trees whisper around them and he finally, finally feels he’s pinpointed the direction. He starts walking again, holding Aramis, his movements slow. They’ll be lucky to get to d’Artagnan and Athos before nightfall. They’ll be lucky to get anywhere. 

“Porthos,” Aramis resumes, his voice strained in frustration. 

“I get it,” Porthos says, “Scold me once we’re safe.”

“I can walk,” Aramis mumbles, drapes into him, though, his body shuddering out at a lance of pain spiking through his leg. He grips Porthos tight, arms around his neck. Anchoring himself to him. 

“I can carry you for a little while,” Porthos mutters. Aramis is injured for his sake, anyway – injured in jumping to protect him, when Porthos was better suited to take the blow. Aramis, who was always the one to stitch him up, always the one to fret over him in a way that Porthos never understood before knowing Aramis, always the one to protect him. This time, then, he can do this much. He squints his eyes against the rain and repeats, “I can carry you this time.” He holds him tight – no room for protest. “So let me.”


End file.
